The Hour Uncertain
by Catherine Wheels
Summary: Greene can't stop thinking about death, and Felix wants nothing to do with it. -Quantum of Solace.-


A/N: Hey. In order of untranslated: "What the hell? I could have given that to someone who wanted it." "Shut up, I don't care." "Speak to me, damn you."

Yep. I really, really liked the new James Bond movie, seen it twice now. Mostly I adored the villain. He was so slimy! So here you go. I don't know how plausible this conversation is, but I wanted to write something with my two favorite characters. (Then would be Camille, because she's hard-core.)

* * *

"What are you waiting for?"

"Death."

"From your cell phone?"

"You may think that if you wish."

Greene stared at the man in the photo, wishing he would move, speak… Anything! Anything that would give a hint as to the final moments. He wanted the man to distort, to prophesize… to do something.

It was an impossible fantasy. The pixels that made the face would not conform to Greene's will.

"What are you expecting?"

"Nothing painless."

Felix sighed, "Then stop obsessing." He checked his watch; waiting for Beam to come back was taking longer than it should have. Why did he think it was a good idea to leave Felix with Greene in the first place?

"Do you not think of your demise at times when it is eminent?" Greene mused, flipping the cell phone closed, and fixing Felix with an uneven stare.

"I'm not going to die anytime soon."

"Oh? Americans… You all think that death is something that happens to other people."

"I'm not saying I'm not going to die at all, just not within the next year or so, alright?" Felix snapped, looking at his watch again. Where the hell was Beam?

"You look nervous," Greene laughed slightly, "Buy another drink."

"No thank you." Felix looked at his watch again, counting the seconds as the passed by. It couldn't possibly take more than twenty minutes to complain to the proprietor of the tenement they were staying at… Unless Beam didn't speak Spanish, which, come to think of it, was probably just the situation.

Greene was smiling, his eyes focused on Felix's face. Stupid American… It was obvious he didn't like what was happening. Perhaps he was even in line with that British fellow; the one that Greene was sure would be his killer.

It was something about the way the British agent seemed to have no fear. From the manner he had used to take Camille, it was obvious that extreme violence and destruction were no bother, and not all that uncommon. Only severely desperate men resorted to explosions and such… cinematic chases!

"Do you think… everything will go under when we die? I suppose White will just replace us."

"Hmhm. You know, I think I'll have another beer." Felix avoided eye contact. When was Beam going to get back?

"We are dispensable, after all. White can simply pull people into his wake whenever he so pleases."

"Yeah. Listen… This has been great, but I think I need to go translate for Beam. He probably doesn't know how to say 'you dog keeps pissing on our door'. So, we'll be in touch."

"Don't you want your drink?"

"Nah. Think of it as a gift."

Greene's smile faltered, "Thank you."

Felix had already gone, not looking back, and walking quicker than he usually would have. Greene took the beer and poured it onto the cobblestones.

"¿Qué diablos?" the bartender snapped, "que podrían haberse dado a alguien que quería."

"Cállate. No me importa." Greene put several bills on the counter and then opened the phone again. The face had not changed. There was no certain hour of death or manner of such, only that focused expression, determination and loneliness.

That loneliness would win over duty. Greene could sense it. Those who were by themselves never truly desired to be so. They would take as many down with them as they could, call it duty, and move on.

In a way, death would almost be a connection. There would be a moment before that finality that would be intimate and real. They would be dragged down to a single level, and in that split second, they would know something that they would forget in the next moment.

"Dire quelque chose, bon sang vous," Greene hissed at the image. It did not respond. It never would.


End file.
